Deck the Holmes ('Cause He Deserves It)
by sirensbane
Summary: Snippets and one-shots starring all our favorite characters. My contribution to Hades Lord of the Dead's December Challenge 2018.
1. Chapter 1 - Smoke

From Zanganito: Smoke

 **A/N: I am new to the fandom, so I am still learning how to write the character's voices. However, I really look forward to contributing to this December challenge!**

* * *

I am not usually susceptible to headaches, but after a long and difficult day at my practice, I was looking forward to nothing more than a quiet, relaxing evening at home. Therefore, it was with unusual irritation that I entered our apartments at 221B Baker Street to find the sitting room entirely filled with smoke. My friend sat near the fireplace, his pipe clamped between his teeth.

"Holmes!"

My friend turned his head leisurely in my direction. "Ah, Watson. This latest case of mine is quite compelling. It is most certainly a three-pipe problem."

" _Three_?" I questioned. It looked more like thirteen.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "When we first obtained rooms together, you assured me that the smell of strong tobacco did not bother you."

I grit my teeth. True, this habit of Holmes' did not usually bother me. However, today, my head was pounding, and I found it difficult to react with my customary patience. Without another word, I stalked upstairs, intending to while away some of evening in a blessedly odor-free environment.

When I came down perhaps an hour later, it was to find all the windows were open, and Holmes sat demurely on the sofa playing the softest, most soothing songs in his repertoire. Despite my still aching head, I could not resist a smile.

Brain without a heart indeed.


	2. Chapter 2 - Hiking Boots

From Winter Winks 221 - Hiking Boots

* * *

"You see that it is of a slightly different design," Holmes said. "More support is lent to the ankles, and hobnails in the soles provide a better grip." He turned the boots over to reveal a grid-like pattern.

I gave the boots that my friend held out a very dubious look.

"Come, Watson," he said with a wry smile. "The way to the waterfall is steep in places, and I would rather not be forced to inform your wife that you tumbled head-long down a mountain."

There was something else behind the smile, something I'd seen more and more since we'd received news that Moriarty had not been captured with his men. But there was nothing to be gained from arguing with Sherlock Holmes, and in the end we set off the mountain together, both wearing the strange new boots.

To my surprise, the boots fit well and were surprisingly comfortable. As the way grew steeper, I became more and more grateful for the added grip and support. As for my friend, the strange emotion in his eyes had vanished and he seemed more and more his old self. From time to time, he paused to examine an interesting piece of stone or foliage, or offered an observation on the breath-taking scenery around us. Step by step, I felt my anxiety fade away.

Whatever came, we would surely be ready.


	3. Chapter 3 - You Could Do Worse

From Madam'zelleG: "You could do worse…"

* * *

In the many years since she'd met Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson had become quite used to thumping, irregular hours, and odd smells. So when she heard the distinct, galloping footsteps on the stairs, she only noted that Mr. Holmes must be in the middle of an interesting case (he was incurably lazy otherwise) and hoped briefly that this one would not involve any rifle shots through the windows.

A shuffling a few minutes later heralded the arrival of the doctor. To her surprise, she did not immediately hear him on the stairs. When the door closed without any further sound, she poked her head out of the kitchen.

"Doctor!"

He tried to smile for her, but the tight lines of pain at the corners of his eyes and mouth made it unconvincing. He was also leaning rather more heavily on his stick than usual. "It's alright, Mrs. Hudson. It's just been rather a long day."

From upstairs, there was the distinct sound of a gunshot.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "And he dragged you all over London, no doubt. Have you had anything to eat?"

"I've had a sight more than Holmes," he grumbled.

Another gunshot, followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone's death rattle.

He shrugged apologetically. "But if you happen to have anything left over from dinner…I know we missed the usual mealtime."

There was a loud thump from upstairs.

"Not to worry," Mrs. Hudson said decisively. "You go on up and get into fresh clothes. I'll bring up tea and something hot to eat in a few minutes."

His smile became more genuine. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what we would do without you."

She smiled back, waited until he slowly began to ascend the stairs, and then returned to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she heard the door opening overhead and heard the doctor's weary "Holmes, why are you impersonating a corpse?" The door closed again, however, before she could hear Mr. Holmes' reply.

Mrs. Hudson thought briefly of Mrs. Smith's tenants, a respectable lawyer and a banker, and then of Mrs. Williams': a young married couple with impeccably behaved children. But no…she'd no doubt go mad from boredom within a month.

 _You could do worse_ , she decided to herself as she began to cook her boys some supper.


	4. Chapter 4 - Ducks Part 1 & 2

From Hades Lord of the Dead: One feels like a duck splashing about in all this wet. And when one feels like a duck, one is happy!

* * *

Sometimes, Holmes' glee over murder is positively indecent.

That is not to say that he does not feel for the victims or experience anger on their behalf. It is simply that his brilliant mind gnaws itself to pieces unless occupied with his work, and he treats any instance of the fantastic or the bizarre with all the eagerness of a child on Christmas Day.

But explaining this in terms that other people will find acceptable is somewhat difficult.

"Why is Mister 'olmes so chuffed 'ha' 'he lady was killed?" Billy asked me. A young lad of perhaps seven or eight, he hadn't had as much experience with Holmes as the rest of the Irregulars. Holmes himself, a light in his eyes, had already darted off.

"Well," I said, trying to focus my mind on the boy. I had had very little rest in the past few days. "…Cold and wet is deeply unpleasant to most of us, but I daresay the ducks enjoy it…" I gestured rather vaguely at the small pond we stood beside. "and, erm…crime for Holmes is rather like splashing around in the wet if you're a duck, and…well, when one feels like a duck, one is happy!"

Billy looked at me pityingly. "You aren'' very good a' 'his, are you, Doc'aw?"

Indeed, I am not.

Perhaps when I have had more than two hours sleep.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm not sure if this works or not…I sympathize with Watson and his sleep deprivation. But believe it or not, this was not the strangest idea that I had for this prompt. Continue reading for another look into the mucky morass of my mind…**

* * *

It was rare for any case with Holmes to go so dangerously wrong. Certainly there were risks in chasing criminals, and Holmes and I have both undergone several injuries to body and mind. But it was in the spring of '85 that Holmes and I adventured on a case that very nearly proved deadly for my friend. Yet even now, I hesitate to lay the facts before my readers, for the solution proved one of the strangest that I have ever encountered.

Jonathan Cooper did not immediately strike one as a criminal. He had a round, doughy face and soft brown eyes that blinked owlishly from behind his spectacles. Most of the time, he manifested an almost childlike docility. And yet he was also subject to severe and often violent mood swings, and when these fits were upon him, he was capable of almost any outrage. . In the case that set Holmes upon his trail, he had attacked and robbed two sisters out for an evening stroll, making off with all the money that they carried and with one woman's diamond necklace. It was this that the lady tearfully begged my friend to retrieve.

Holmes set the Irregulars to visiting pawnshops for the necklace while he and I undertook the task of tracing the assailant. From the description offered by the two women, my friend speedily identified Cooper, and it took little time for him to track down the man's lodgings, despite a heavy, pouring rain. A boy was dispatched to find a local Constable. However, when Holmes, impatient and brooding over the swift conclusion to the case, sought to enter the house and determine whether Cooper was indeed inside, he was surprised by none other than Cooper himself. I arrived just in time to see Holmes crumple to the ground and Cooper standing over him with a length of pipe.

"Don't!" Cooper ordered me as I began to draw my revolver from my pocket, his voice high and thready. "No weapon, or I bash this fellow's brains out!"

He looked quite ready to carry out on his threats, and so I slowly withdrew my hand and held both up where he could see them. "There is no need for violence."

Abruptly, Cooper's mood changed, though not his position over my prone friend. "One feels like a duck splashing about in all this wet," he said fretfully, gazing out the window.

Something about this mood did indeed remind me of an animal in a trap or perhaps a young child cooped up inside. At any rate, perhaps it would be possible to pacify him using some of the same methods as one would use in those situations. I pitched my voice low and deliberately soothing.

"And when one feels like a duck…" I said, and he stopped his fidgeting a moment to look at me. He seemed to have forgot the unconscious Holmes at his feet. I faltered. I had not actually planned out what I was going to say, only focused on the tone I was to use. Before the faint spark of interest in his eyes could die, I added somewhat at random, "one is happy!"

To my surprise and relief, he did not treat this inanity with the disdain it deserved. Instead, his voice took on a strange, dreamy tone. "The duck is happy?"

"Yes," I said determinedly in the same sing-song voice. "The duck is happy. When one feels like a duck, one is happy!" Was Holmes stirring? "And calm. The duck is very calm."

He seemed to ponder this. The tension in his shoulders slackened a little more. Inspired, I added. "Can you be calm and happy like the duck?"

Holmes stirred again. _Curse it, Holmes, don't wake up now!_

"Perhaps you'd like some bread?" I suggested, unable to believe that this tactic appeared to be working but hoping to get Cooper away from Holmes before my friend's feeble stirring drew his attention. I made an inviting gesture towards the pantry. I had absolutely no idea if there would be bread there, or any other kind of edible. "Like the ducks?"

He took a few steps away from Holmes and towards the pantry…and it was in that very moment that a pair of Constables burst through the door.

In the aftermath of Cooper's arrest, I tended to Holmes. He had indeed been stirring, but was certainly suffering the effects of a concussion. It took several minutes before he felt steady enough to sit, and several more moments to pull together speech.

"Watson," he said blinking in confusion, and winced, putting his hand to his head. "Did I…did I hear…you say something about…ducks?"

"You were imagining things, dear fellow," I told him, glad he could not read me as well as he usually did. "Come on, one of the Constables has hailed a cab to return us both to Baker Street. You must rest, and I must be near to monitor your condition."

He did as I asked without protest, though I had to support him out to the cab and help him into it. I sat beside him, feeling an incredible sense of relief now that the crisis had passed. Holmes already seemed steadier. He was safe and would recover.

And if I was called in early the next morning to treat a prisoner who insisted on flapping his arms around his cell, well that was a small price to pay.


	5. Chapter 5 - That's Poisoned!

From Domina Temporis: That's poisoned!

* * *

 **Part 1**

"Watson," Holmes said, "I desire your professional opinion."

I crouched down at Holmes' side and examined the corpse of the unfortunate Mrs Morgan. "I would say she died of asphyxiation," I said.

"And yet there are no signs of strangulation."

I nodded. "Exactly. And if she had been smothered, I would expect certain other symptoms to present themselves."

"Then the evidence suggests that she was poisoned." Holmes rose to his feet and began to prowl the room. "Further confirmed by the lack of forced entry at the doors and windows and the fact that they were locked at the time of the murder."

I rose as well, somewhat less gracefully, and found a seat on the sofa where I could be out of my companion's way and yet observe his movements. The tea the footman thoughtfully had brought was not yet cold, and I sipped it while I considered the problem at hand. The servants had reported that Mrs. Morgan had not complained of illness in the hours before her death. Arsenic therefore was highly unlikely, and I wondered what had caused the killer to discount such an easily acquired poison, particularly since its effects mimicked many common ailments. More importantly, how had the fatal dose of this mysterious poison been delivered?

I had just opened my mouth to ask Holmes when my tongue began to tingle.

At the same moment, Holmes whirled from where he stood at the far side of the room, eyes wide with alarm. "Watson!" He bounded across the room to dash the teacup from my hand. Was it my imagination, or did the tea now soaking into the carpet have an ominous tinge? I shoved the panic away and tried to think, but it was hard to focus past the sudden parched feeling in my throat. The tingling had become numbness, spreading inexorably toward my fingers and toes.

The door sprang open at Holmes' cry, and the two constables who had been exiled from the room when Holmes had begun his investigation rushed into the room.

"Mister Holmes?"

"What happened?"

"Dr. Watson has been poisoned," Holmes said, helping me to lie down on the couch, "with the same poison that killed Mrs. Morgan. One of you must fetch a doctor immediately. The other one must seek out the footman who brought the tea. He is the man responsible, and we must know what poison he has used if we are to determine the correct antidote in time."

Both men sprang into action. Holmes meanwhile crouched at my side and reached out to take my pulse. "Watson," he said, in a tone of what I thought forced calm, "You must give me any information that you can about your symptoms. This is too quick-acting to be arsenic. Is there any other other poison you can think of that this could be?

 _Knowledge of poisons: profound_ , I thought with a sort of giddy relief, and nodded. Cyanide, perhaps, or opium. Strychnine. No, not strychnine, for I had not noted any bitter taste…I don't know what Holmes made of my garbled answers, or if he could even understand a word. Then, before I could try again, my skin ignited.

* * *

 **Holmes**

 _You fool_ , I cursed myself, _you blind, useless fool_. How could it have taken me so long to realize the manner in which the poison was delivered? And to realize that Watson and I had now become a threat to the poisoner's position? My own cup of tea, untouched, still sat on the table. If I were not in the habit of eschewing food and drink entirely while on a case, would I too be garbling words through a tongue gone numb?

Not strychine. Surely Watson would have noticed an increased bitter taste? Not opium. I was too familiar with its effects to mistake them.

Then without warning, Watson began to scream.

* * *

 **Watson**

I shouted and writhed, trying desperately to escape the burning sensation as my flesh peeled away. I vaguely heard Holmes calling my name and felt his hands on my shoulders trying to hold me still. But even through my clothing, the touch itself was agony. Holmes, white-faced, loosened his grip at once.

"Cyanide?" he muttered. "No, there has been no increase in heart rate…"

It was true. In fact, I fancied I could feel my pulse weakening as my sight and hearing dulled. My muscles began to twitch and convulse, and Holmes was forced to intervene once more to keep me from falling off the couch. In a moment of sharp clarity, I realized what Holmes himself no doubt already knew. It was unlikely that the doctor, if one could be found, would be able to intervene in time. Not with the poison still unidentified.

"Holmes," I tried to say, clutching weakly at his sleeve. "Holmes."

"Rest, Watson," he said in return. His tone was still that same forced calm, but I thought I saw tightly leashed panic in his eyes. I felt a surge of warmth wash over me that had nothing in common with the horrible burning I had felt. It was almost worth that pain to peek behind the cold mask that Holmes so often wore, to know that he did indeed feel concern for my wellbeing.

Then Holmes cursed. "There are too many possibilities, and I have no time!" He looked away from me, towards the door, and I saw something cold and hard settle across his features. "Adams, did you succeed in capturing the footman?"

The man swallowed. "Aye, Mister Holmes. I've got him in the root cellar. There's only the one exit, sir, and I've barred the door."

I watched without understanding as Holmes rose smoothly to his feet. "Thank you, Constable. You will remain here and look after Watson. If I have not yet returned by the time the doctor arrives, you will inform him that the first symptoms of the poison were a tingling and numbness of the tongue."

"Aye, sir," I heard the constable say as he moved to my side. "But what are you going to do, sir?"

"Do not trouble yourself, Constable," Holmes said coolly, and was gone.

Panting, I waited in the growing dimness for Holmes to return. As breathing became steadily more difficult, I felt a surge of mingled anger and regret. Surely Holmes could have found the wherewithal to remain at my side? If these were to be my final moments, there were things I wished to say to him, messages I wished him to carry to Mrs. Hudson, to Mary. God, Mary…

I vaguely noted the arrival of the doctor, and the relief evident in the young constable's voice as he relinquished his charge. The doctor felt my pulse and asked me questions that I could not understand or could not answer.

Then, "It is no use," the doctor said, shaking his head. "Without knowledge of the particular poison…"

"Wolfsbane." The voice came from the direction of the door. Even as my sight grew entirely dark, I recognized the voice of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes. "Wolfsbane was the poison that was used to poison both Mrs. Morgan and Dr. Watson."

The name stirred something in me, a memory. Wolfsbane, also known as monkshood. No direct antidote, but the effects could be treated with…

I tried to get the word out, but the effort was beyond me. Black spots swam before my eyes, and then flooded out my senses entirely.

* * *

 **Part 2**

It was with some surprise that I awoke. Blearily, I cast my eyes about, trying to determine where I was. I did not recognize the room, nor the cheery bedspread that covered me. Every muscle ached, and my mouth felt uncomfortably dry.

"Ah, Watson, awake at last. How are you feeling?

I turned my head weakly to the side to behold Holmes sitting at my bedside. He still wore the same suit he had been wearing when we'd visited Mrs. Morgan's, and his face was pale and drawn with fatigue.

"Where…where am I?"

"We are still guests in the household of the late Mrs. Morgan," Holmes said. "Doctor Wright determined it would be too dangerous to move you very far." He reached over to a nightstand and held out a glass of water. He helped me to drink it, and I could have cried out with relief as the pain in my throat eased somewhat. "It is now the third day since you were poisoned."

"Th-three days?" I asked in disbelief. "Surely…surely I have not slept all that while."

Holmes smiled, but it was strained. "No, but this is the first time that you have demonstrated signs of lucidity. The effects of the atropine were nearly as violent as those of the wolfsbane to which you were exposed."

 _Atropine_. The word was somehow familiar to me, but I could not immediately place it.

"Atropine, derived from the deadly nightshade plant," Holmes said before I could inquire. "Used in correct doses to treat patients whose heart rate has dropped below sixty beats per minute."

"Wolfsbane," I murmured, catching on at last. "Slows the heart."

Holmes smiled again, a little more genuinely. "A doctor even in times of turmoil, Watson. Do you desire a little food before you rest?"

My stomach churned. I closed my eyes, trying to master myself, and shook my head. "I-I think I will simply rest, Holmes."

My friend nodded and aided me in curling up once more beneath the covers.

* * *

I woke again sometime later to the sound of voices outside my room. One was Holmes. The other I recognized after a moment or two as that of Inspector Lestrade.

"Three broken ribs, Mr. Holmes, and a shattered kneecap. Bruises to match, a swollen eye. The doctor believes he will never walk properly again!"

"Running from the scene of a crime can be a dangerous business," Holmes said coldly.

"He didn't sustain those injuries in his arrest, Constable Adams swears to that, and some of the marks couldn't possibly have been caused by anything in that cellar."

If anything, my friend's voice grew colder. "What are you implying, Inspector?"

There was an uncomfortable pause. "How did you know what the poison was, Mr. Holmes? Or how to treat it?"

I could almost see Holmes shrug. "Watson himself can tell you that I've made quite a study of chemicals, poisons in particular. It is of vital interest to my work. Now, if you have no further questions…"

"I-not at this time, Mr. Holmes. Please give my best to Doctor Watson and my wishes for his speedy recovery."

Holmes' voice softened ever so slightly. "I will."

I lay back again, and a moment later, Holmes himself opened the door. "Ah, Watson," he said, seeing my eyes on him. "I am sorry if I wakened you."

There were questions that I longed to ask him, but all of those could wait for a more opportune time. Instead, I smiled at him weakly. "Perhaps, if it's not too much trouble, you could help me arise a moment? There is a small…matter that I need to take care of that has awakened me."

"Of course." He moved instantly to my side and aided me to rise. I leaned heavily on him all the way to the bathroom, and he lingered outside the door until my business was complete. Then, weaving like a pair of drunks, we staggered back to bed. Holmes arranged the covers over me and helped me drink a little more water.

"Rest well, Watson," he said gravely, hand upon the lamp. "I will send for Doctor Wright to attend you when you awake. He will know how long before you may be safely returned to Baker Street."

I smiled gratefully, and he departed. As I closed my eyes once more, I thought not for the first time how lucky I was to be able to call this remarkable man my friend.

* * *

 **A/N: I am not a doctor, and everything I know about poison came from a series of websites. Nightshade really can be used to treat bradycardia, the heart condition that Holmes described. It's very dangerous though, so don't try this at home! To the best of my knowledge, all the chemicals I've mentioned here are real and would have been available in Watson's time. Check out talespin DOT weekly weebly DOT com/blog/poisonning-in-the-19th-century for my primary source!**

 **Epilogue to follow!**


	6. Chapter 6 - Fireplace

From Worldwielder: Fireplace

 **A/N:** **This story follows directly on the heels of the last.**

* * *

For several weeks after the unfortunate affair at Mrs. Morgan's, I had little energy and was sometimes plagued with confusion or hallucinations. I spent most of my time curled in my chair by the fireplace, reveling in the warmth on my hands and face.

Holmes was often present during this time, pouring over his commonplace books or newspaper clippings. At the time, I did not attach much significance to his apparent lack of cases but simply remained grateful for his presence.

"Watson?" he asked one evening as I sat once more by the fire.

Drowsily, I sought out my friend. "Yes, Holmes?"

"I must apologize."

I confess to being somewhat startled by this: the word "apologize" rarely passed Holmes's lips. I attempted to rouse myself and bring the full force of my faculties to bear. "Apologize, Holmes? For what?"

Holmes did not quite meet my eyes. "Your ordeal was the result of my failure to identify the culprit quickly. And you would not have been targeted had you not accompanied me."

"No apology is necessary, dear fellow," I told him firmly.

And I refused to hear anything more on the subject.


	7. Chapter 7 - Giraffes

From Winter Winks 221: 'It was 1866, my dear fellow, when my grandmother walked into a giraffe.'

* * *

On the infrequent occasions on which Holmes was not preoccupied with a case but had not yet lapsed into a black mood through stagnation, it was our custom to walk through London in the evening. Whether through a desire to amuse me or simply in keeping with his penchant for dramatics, Holmes would often make deductions about the people that we passed.

"What do you make of the group of cobblers on the corner, Watson?" When I pressed him, he pointed out a dizzying array of qualities which revealed their profession.

A few minutes later, "It is rather late for a typist to be walking the streets, don't you think?"

Then, "I am gratified to see a former marine with such a comfortable new position."

"And that man, Holmes?" I asked, pointing at a man at random. I confess that on this occasion, I had not been listening well, too familiar with my companion's unusual gifts.

"A zookeeper, clearly," Holmes answered without pause. "Specifically, he cares for the giraffes."

That startled me out of my reverie. "I say, Holmes, surely there is no way that you can know that."

"I have made a study of a wide variety of facts that may be useful in my profession, Watson, and moreover, I have the advantage of family history. Indeed, it was 1866, my dear fellow, when my grandmother walked into a giraffe…"

He proceeded to regale me with a list of characteristics of zookeepers, supplemented by a story about his family, which indeed was more fascinating to me than his deductions. It was so rare that Holmes spoke at all about his history.

"And lastly, of course," Holmes finished. "One must be as tall as that man is in order to properly work with giraffes."

A sudden suspicion struck me. "Holmes! Did you make all that up?"

Without reply, he swept past me back towards Baker Street. Offended by my lack of faith? Or trying to hide a smile? I hurried after.

"Holmes!"

* * *

 **A/N: So, what do you think? Is Holmes making it up?**


	8. Chapter 8 - The Unlit Pipe

From Stutley Constable: The Unlit Pipe.

 **A/N: Thank you for your patience as I try desperately to catch up. Stupid finals… Anyway, I've been looking for an opportunity to write from Holmes' perspective, so I'm excited about this one. Tell me what you think.**

* * *

I am not what you would call a patient man. Watson, for all his foibles, vastly outstrips me in this regard. As such, it was with deepest displeasure that I once more tried and failed to light my pipe. I am not usually given to smoking while on a case, but this had been a particularly long and trying day, and my messages to lure the perpetrator out had already been dispatched. There was nothing more to do than wait for him to return to the scene of his crime, and this would likely not occur for several more hours.

Unfortunately, the ramshackle shed where Watson and I had concealed ourselves had been abandoned for quite some time, and the wind blew almost unimpeded through the gaps in its tattered walls. Not only was it windy, but the air itself was damp. All in all, most unfavorable conditions. I cursed under my breath as my fourth attempt failed.

"Here," Watson interrupted abruptly, jarring me out of my thoughts. "Let me help." I had not noticed his regard. Seven months after his return to London, his health was still impaired, and though he had made no word of complaint, the cold and damp was even less tolerable for him than it was for me. When last I had looked in his direction, he had been huddled miserably on a chair, as far away from the holes in the wall as he could get. "You may be able to light the pipe if I help to block the wind." He stepped up close to me, shielding the pipe, and maintained the position as I attempted once more to get the tobacco within to light.

This time, with much of the wind thus blocked, I was successful.

Watson smiled at me and, without waiting for a word of thanks, returned to his former place.

I puffed on the pipe thoughtfully; this was the first time in a long while that a person promised to be even more interesting than a case.


	9. Chapter 9 - Honey

From zanganito: Honey

 **A/N: I know the obvious answer to the prompt would be to write about Holmes' retirement, but where's the fun in that?**

* * *

"Honey," Holmes said without warning one warm night in the summer of 1885.

"What, Holmes?" I asked distractedly. I was attempting to compile my notes concerning our recent adventure with Ms. Violet Smith, and to add some relevant descriptive details that would make it possible to publish the story at some future date.

"You were attempting to think of an appropriate comparison for the color of Ms. Smith's hair, presumably in case you should ever be asked to describe it for your readers. I believe 'honey' is the most exact, though 'amber' might also suffice."

I turned and stared at him where he lounged indolently on the couch, wrapped in his dressing gown with pipe in hand. I had in fact been doing that very thing, but for the life of me, I could not figure out how he had deduced it.

Holmes smiled at my evident confusion. "My dear fellow, you always write up your notes for a case within hours of its completion, in hopes of preserving the details as accurately as possible. However, as it is not long since we returned from Charlington, I do not think you would struggle so to recall a _fact_ of the case. Therefore, you are attempting to think of some kind of comparison, in keeping with the romanticism which characterizes your work. What indeed is worthy to be described in such a way? Surely the lady herself."

I mustered my wits. "I could have been describing the desolate countryside in which the events took place."

Holmes snorted. "Yet your pen is at the beginning of your notes, and you always record things chronologically. Besides, for you, the client, particularly if it is a lady, is far more memorable than any countryside."

"And the fact that I was trying to describe her hair?" I asked, a trifle annoyed by his characterization.

"Because," Holmes said with a faint hint of amusement, returning to his pipe. "Your irritated mutterings of 'her eyes, her eyes' were a full thirty minutes ago, and I have heard nothing from you since."


	10. Chapter 10 - Teddy Bear

From Book girl fan: "What child does not have a teddy bear?"

* * *

After his retirement to Sussex Downs, my dear friend Sherlock Holmes largely dropped out of society. He had some few acquaintances who visited him sometimes at his cottage, and I was privileged enough to be one of them. So it was that I found myself seated in an armchair by the fire one evening and engaged in a surprising conversation.

"You _never_ had any sort of special toy when you were a child, Holmes?"

My friend shrugged, the firelight playing over the small smile on his face. "My childhood, as you know, Watson, was hardly a conventional one. The possession that I remember from an earliest age was a magnifying glass; I suppose that might be considered a childhood toy."

"But no toy soldiers? No puppets or trains?" I knew from what Holmes had told me that his family had been wealthy, which was why I was surprised by his revelation.

"No," Holmes said. "I hardly had the patience for such things, and my parents did not go out of their way to provide them."

I sat back in my chair. "I suppose it was a different time."

He cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

Now it was my turn to shrug. "A new toy has recently come over from America. It is called a 'teddy bear,' I understand, after their recent President. Now it seems like every child I meet of any means is carrying one."

The story I'd heard on the teddy bear's origins was an amusing one, and Holmes listened indulgently as I expounded on it. It was a far cry from the earlier years of our acquaintance; I doubted Holmes would even have feigned interest in such a topic. At length, I bid him goodnight and retired to the guest room he kept in readiness for my visits. The next day, Holmes saw me off to the train station, and though he behaved most cheerfully, I thought I saw something like wistfulness or sadness in his eyes.

That look haunted me in the following days and weeks, and so it was when I at last returned to Sussex, I brought with me a small stuffed bear.

Holmes gave me an arch look when I presented it. "Am I to consider this a comment upon my age, that I am approaching second childhood, Watson?"

"Not at all," I said with a smile. "It simply gives me pleasure to give it to you. As a token of friendship."

As I knew he would, he gingerly accepted the gift. "A rather odd token, my dear fellow. But come in. My housekeeper has just prepared tea."

* * *

A year later, I arrived once more at the cottage in Sussex. As I saw the empty hives and entered the silent house where my friend had lived, I felt once more the weight of my terrible grief. Holmes had passed suddenly in the night, with no opportunity to send for me. After so many years of friendship, I had not been at his side when he had needed me most. I made no attempt to hold back my tears as I moved through the rooms one by one.

But as I entered the bedroom, I saw something that struck my heart, a healing cut even as it bled.

A stuffed bear, propped carefully on the pillows.


	11. Chapter 11 - Nest

From Wordwielder: Nest

* * *

The boy was curled up on a nest of rags, tucked as closely to the wall as he could get. Even asleep, he shuddered with the bitter cold, and his rest was clearly fitful. When I reached out a hand to shake his shoulder, however, he came out of his nest like a feral cat, scratching and clawing for my face.

"Billy!" I called, warding off the attack with some difficulty. He was much smaller than I, but his fierceness far belied his small size. "It is me, Doctor Watson!"

Abruptly, his attempts to attack me ceased. "Doc?" He rubbed his eyes, and I noticed that his gloves were cut off at the fingers. Totally inadequate in this weather.

"Yes," I said gently. "Billy, whatever are you doing outside on such a night?" I asked. Billy was one of the few Irregulars who did have a home to return to, though his frequent involvement in Holmes' cases led me to believe it was not always a happy one.

Billy rubbed his eyes again and looked a bit sheepish, not an easy thing to do when shaking with cold. "Me dad's been drinkin' pretty 'eavily tonight, and I didn't wanna test things wif 'im. I'll be alwigh' though," he added, apparently at my expression. "Me spot's pretty warm, and I nicked summit ter eat from the kitchen before I left."

I hesitated. I could not with a clear conscience allow Billy to remain here on the street. However, I knew well enough that he would not accept what he called "chari'y". If I were to offer to let him stay at Baker Street until morning, he would refuse, and perhaps flee into the alleys nearby, leaving behind even this meager shelter.

However, I had not lived with Sherlock Holmes for years for nothing.

"In that case, I shall not trouble you," I said briskly. "I had hoped that I could find someone to help me with a task at Baker Street, but perhaps Wiggins or one of your other fellows would be willing…"

He straightened up. "I can 'elp, doctor!"

I shook my head. "I am not heartless, Billy. I would not draw you from your warm nest on such a night."

He crossed his arms. "And I'd be a wite fin' if I refused ter 'elp a doctor." He made a show of casting a reluctant look back at his impromptu nest. "I suppose I can find anovver Drum just as warm afterwards."

I hid a smile. "Well, if you are sure, I would certainly appreciate your help."

I hired a cab for the rest of the way back to Baker Street, for in all honesty, I also appreciated a chance to get out of the cold. Billy's eyes were wide; it was clear that he had never ridden in one before. We alighted at Baker Street, and I led Billy inside and up the stairs. I prayed Holmes would not be involved in a chemical experiment when we entered, but he was only sitting in his armchair staring at the fire and smoking a pipe. He turned his head at our entrance.

"Ah, Watson…" Here he noticed my companion.

"Billy was kind enough to offer me some assistance," I cut in firmly before he could speak. In truth, I had been wracking my brains the whole cab ride here for something innocuous the child could do that would not require him to go out of doors. "I have boxes of case notes that require cataloging, and it is difficult for me to sit on the floor to do so." I did not quite heave a sigh, for I thought that would be pushing things too far.

Billy's eyes, which had gone dull at the thought of organizing, brightened again at the chance to peek at some of our unpublished cases. I braced myself for Holmes' response, which was sure to be cutting, but he merely held my gaze a moment and then turned away as though disinterested.

"You would not require an assistant if you kept them organized from the start, Doctor," he said.

I was so relieved that I did not point out the inherent hypocrisy of this critique. I had fully expected a barbed reminder that some of the cases were sensitive and should not be seen by anyone, least of all a child. Resolved to be worthy of his trust, I turned back to Billy and began giving him instructions.

An hour later, very little organizing had actually been done (and I had successfully steered Billy past all the questionable cases), Holmes had retreated to his room, and Billy was asleep on the hearth rug. I admit to a strong sense of satisfaction at how well my plan had worked, and moving as quietly as I could, I draped a blanket over the child, careful not to wake him as I did. Then, picking up another blanket for myself, I settled deep into my armchair to watch the flames.


	12. Chapter 12 - Something Unexpected

From cjnwriter: Mrs. Hudson is cleaning the flat and finds something unexpected (even for Holmes)

* * *

A/N: All credit goes to angeldog for my solution to this prompt.

* * *

 **Holmes**

To say that my evening walks with Milverton's housemaid were wearying in the extreme would be an understatement. In the view of the stakes I played for, the life and dignity of Lady Eva, there was no other alternative. However, I could not help but be absurdly grateful that my association with Ms. Alice Johnson was nearly at an end. With some relief, I noted that Watson's hat and coat were missing from the hall and wearily ascended the stairs to our apartments.

Perhaps it was my instincts, painstaking honed over my years as a detective, but something made me pause as I neared our door. A moment later, I heard the sound of movement from within. Could Milverton have somehow become aware of my plans and come to confront me? I had many enemies, but the timing of this intrusion rendered their involvement most unlikely.

I hesitated, considering what it was that I should do. If it were Milverton, the best thing to do would be to throw open the door and confront him boldly. But no, Milverton was too wily a serpent to open himself to charges of trespassing. Had he the suspicion that I meant to employ extralegal means against him, the best he could do would be to report them to the police, or simply to wait in his office with a revolver. Unless he thought that here I would be more likely to drop my guard...

But no, I was allowing apprehension to rule my thoughts; the tread within was too light to be Milverton. Not Watson, dear fellow, his boots were by that time as familiar a sound to me as my own. I crept closer to the door and gripped the handle gently. As I had expected, it was not locked, and I was able to quietly push the door open four or five inches.

A tuneless humming confirmed my suspicions. Mrs. Hudson was within, dusting or perhaps tidying as she sometimes insisted. I cringed inwardly at the sight I presented: the so-called "Great Detective" sneaking up to his own door, carried away by his own wild imagination. I had just straightened up when the tuneless humming abruptly stopped. Surprisingly, however, no sigh to herald resignation followed, nor did a click of her tongue which might suggest disapproval.

Surely there was nothing I had done in recent days that would surprise her.

By shifting my weight, I was able to see her through the gap in the door, and I swiftly deduced the reason for her amazement. In the course of my planned engagement to Ms. Johnson, I had found it necessary to procure a ring. A simple thing, quite in keeping with Thomas Escott's prospects as a rising plumber, and something that had not cost too much of my money to acquire. After thus acquiring it, I had laid it on the shelf where I kept my commonplace books and had quite evidently forgotten about it. Tomorrow had been the planned date for the proposal, and I had not desired to think of the ordeal any more than necessary.

But Mrs. Hudson now stood by the bookshelves, holding the velvet box in her hand. While I was in no way ashamed of the actions taken to save my client, Mrs. Hudson finding the ring did place me in a somewhat awkward position. Due to its location, it was hardly possible to claim the ring was Watson's, and there was indeed no way that Watson could have kept any romance secret for so long. And if I claimed the ring as mine, she would ask questions I had no wish to answer (particularly as the honest answers could cause me to lose my accommodations).

As quietly as I could, I retreated down the stairs and once more to the street. There was no way to retrieve the ring at the moment. Other lodgings tonight then, and then a silent raid early in the morning. Watson would no doubt be home tomorrow afternoon, and perhaps if I moved swiftly enough, I could avoid Mrs. Hudson's questions until after the burglary.

I prefer, after all, to plan for one thing at a time.

Note: When I informed Mrs. Hudson briefly, the day after Milverton's death, that there would be no wedding, she seemed quite relieved.


	13. Chapter 13 - Tomfoolery

From SheWhoScrawls: Tomfoolery

* * *

As an important member of Her Majesty's government, I have little time or patience for the tomfoolery surrounding Christmas. The putting up of a tree, the burning of the Yule log, the excessive greenery pervading every inch of one's home, and of course, the tedious business of choosing and receiving gifts. I am fortunate indeed that Sherlock generally agrees with me upon these matters, which has prevented a great deal of awkwardness concerning the season. However, in December of 1894, I received a message in my armchair at the Diogenes Club that my brother and his companion Dr. Watson wished to speak to me in the Stranger's Room at my earliest convenience.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said when I appeared. He had, I noticed, begun to put back on some of the weight he had lost during his hiatus, and insofar as I was qualified to judge, the past six months seemed to have agreed with him. A parcel lay at his feet, presumably something belonging to Dr. Watson.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Watson added, more quietly. He too showed signs of recovering health; the one time I had seen him at my brother's funeral, I had noted his particularly wan appearance.

I greeted them both and took a seat in the armchair opposite. "So, Sherlock, are you here to ask my assistance with one of your cases?"

Sherlock looked somewhat uncomfortable. "Actually, Mycroft, we are here simply to wish you the compliments of the season." To my surprise, he leaned down and offered the package to me. "Merry Christmas."

I eyed him narrowly. It was absurd to think that Sherlock had come to this resolution on his own; therefore Dr. Watson must have played a hand in it. However, it was surprising that Sherlock had not squashed the idea immediately and had moreover indulged the doctor's whims. Perhaps Sherlock still felt some misplaced sense of guilt over the deception he had perpetrated during the affair with Moriarty.

"I do not have a gift for you," I said, reluctantly accepting the package.

Sherlock actually smiled. "Nor do I expect one, brother mine." He rose, and Watson obediently followed suit. "I hope that it shall at least make those interminable meetings more bearable."

I shot him a sharp look. That Sherlock would even allude to my true position in Her Majesty's government in front of Dr. Watson was a sign of his absolute trust in the man, a trust which I had never seen him extend to anyone else. When my brother and his companion had departed, I opened the parcel to reveal a truly excellent Montrachet.

It would seem that there was more to the doctor than met the eye.


	14. Chapter 14 - A New Tradition

From KnightFury: A new tradition

 **A/N: Once more experimenting with a different point of view.**

* * *

"Next time a Christmas drunk gets rowdy, Higgins," I told the boy unsympathetically, "I suggest you duck."

"I did!" he protested, then hissed in pain as Dr. Watson cleaned a bit more blood away from the wound. "But then one of his mates clobbered me with a walking stick!"

"He definitely has a concussion, Inspector," the doctor interjected before I could go on. "Though thankfully not a serious one. I suggest you take some rest, but other than that, there is not much I can do."

"Thanks for coming in so late, Doctor," I said, fixing Constable Higgins with a steely eye. He muttered a sheepish thank you as well.

"Think nothing of it. These are hardly the strangest hours I have kept," Dr. Watson said easily, packing up his Gladstone bag once more. "But try not to make this a new Christmas tradition, Higgins."

The boy started to shake his head, remembered his head injury too late, and winced. "No sir!"

Watson smiled and then held out a hand to me. "I shall show myself out, Lestrade," I wish you all the compliments of the season."

I returned his grip. "And to you, Doctor."

At the door, Dr. Watson stopped. "Christmastime Concussions. As traditions go, at least it has a pleasant ring to it." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps the next time I am called to treat a concussion here, I shall bring Holmes along as well."

Higgins stared after him with blatant horror. If the lad hadn't already learned his lesson about being aware of his surroundings, no doubt the promise - or threat - of Holmes' visit would provide the perfect motivation. Then it occurred to me that the next concussion could be mine. I could already see Holmes' smirk in my mind's eye. "It is fortunate indeed, Inspector Lestrade, that your head proved so much harder than the weapon…"

I shuddered. Perhaps I would need to be more careful on the streets as well.

Just in case


	15. Chapter 15 - A Relative Arrives

15\. From mrspencil: A relative arrives for the festive season.

* * *

In his years of association with me, Watson has seen his fair share of oddities, and he customarily adopts an attitude of peculiar forbearance. Indeed, it is this very quality that has allowed us to remain friends and colleagues for so long, as I am aware that I am hardly the most restful of companions. Therefore it was with great surprise that I looked up from my chemicals on December the 21st to see Watson enter our shared rooms like a whirling dervish, brimming with evident agitation and practically wringing his hands on the handle of his stick.

"Holmes," he said before I could note more than that he had just come from the telegram office and had received a message of some import, "There is something that I wish to ask you."

As he was clearly perturbed, I did not share my deductions as was my wont, but merely essayed a look of calm reassurance. "If it is within my power to help, I shall of course be glad to do so."

Some of the tension left his shoulders. "My uncle, James Watson, shall be in London for the Christmas holidays, and he has asked to dine with me on Christmas Eve."

"Ah, the man from whom you derive your middle name," I said. To my knowledge, I was one of the few men aware that Watson's second name was Hamish.

He smiled, but it was strained. "Yes. My father's older brother. He did not approve of my joining the army, so I am a bit at a loss to explain why he wishes to meet…At any rate, Holmes, it would be a great favor to me if you would accompany me."

I must admit, it was not what I had expected. "You…you wish me to accompany you to this dinner with your uncle?" As observations go, it was not one of my more intelligent.

Watson nodded. "I know you don't usually approve of social affairs, but it would be a…well, it would be a comfort to have a friend present, someone whom I trust. Besides," and here he essayed a more jovial tone, "there is no one more qualified to speak as to my actions for the past few years than yourself."

I was painfully aware that I did little to deserve his trust, and the role of mediator was not one to which I was inherently suited. Watson's uncle must be indeed be a truly unpleasant person to induce such a sense of painful anxiety in my friend, and I had no desire to sacrifice my time of leisure to what threatened to be a most awkward and disagreeable evening. I opened my mouth, fully intending to decline.

"What time and where are we to meet?" I asked instead.

At the risk of giving in to the Romanticism that often characterizes Watson's writing, I will say that his smile was blinding.

* * *

 **A/N: My original idea was to expand this to include the dinner itself, but I'm so far behind in this challenge that it's not currently feasible. Would anyone be interested in reading the expansion if I were to get around to it?**


	16. Chapter 16 - Lion, Witch, and Wardrobe

16\. From Madam'zelleG: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

* * *

"Watson!"

I raised my revolver - which on this occasion seemed pitifully inadequate. "I am a trifle busy, Holmes." The lion roared.

"There is no chance that a bullet from your revolver would have an impact on the beast!" Holmes growled, still grappling with the old crone who had conjured it. "However, if we can somehow retrieve her wand…"

Tenacious Holmes might be, but his opponent seemed possessed of the Devil himself. She kicked and bit and shrieked, and it was only with the greatest of efforts that Holmes was able to maintain his hold upon the wand, let alone tear it from her hands.

The lion growled, its golden eyes orienting on me, and I felt a surge of primal terror unlike any I have ever known. But Holmes was correct. I turned my revolver resolutely away from the lion, aimed carefully and fired. The bullet cracked the wall merely inches by the old woman's ear, and she screeched loud enough to set my ears a-ringing.

Her brief moment of inattention, however, was enough. Holmes quickly wrenched the wand from her hands and turned the tip of it towards the lion just as it sprang. There was a blinding flash of light, and when it cleared, a very confused hedgehog sat where the lion had been.

Some time later, Holmes finished muddling the lock on an old-fashioned wardrobe which now contained the bound, unconscious witch. I shifted the hedgehog to my coat pocket and took a firmer grip on the wand. Wordlessly, we limped outside to wait for the constables to arrive.

"You needn't worry, Holmes," I told my friend as I checked the bandages on his bleeding arm. "I will not be publishing this one in the Strand."


	17. Chapter 17 - A Scottish Breakfast

From Stutley Constable: A Scottish breakfast.

* * *

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?" I said, rather smugly. It was rare that I managed to surprise Sherlock Holmes, and the moments stood out like bright lights in my memory.

"What are you doing?"

"I should think that would be apparent," I said, flipping several slices of bacon and pausing a moment to stir the pudding. The kettle was already on, and the baked beans and sausage were simply being kept warm on the stove.

"Will Lestrade be coming here to settle the bet, or will you be transporting all this to Scotland Yard?"

"He's coming here," I said idly, judging that it was about time to start the eggs. "I would have too much trouble keeping it warm if…" Then Holmes' words properly sank in. I stopped in astonishment to stare at my companion. "Wait a moment, Holmes, how on earth could you know that I was cooking this to settle a bet with Lestrade?"

"I should think that would be apparent," Holmes echoed me with a trace of a smirk. "At any rate, I hope his appointment is soon. I have little experience with cooking, but it would seem that you are nearly done."

"I _am_ nearly done," I said, aggrieved. To my discomfiture, he settled down in a chair by the door, apparently quite willing to sit and watch me work. "But surely the art of cooking cannot be of any possible interest to you."

"Chemistry, my dear Watson," Holmes chided mildly. "I have little practical experience with cooking, it is true, but no doubt the knowledge I have accumulated would be of substantial use if I were to make the attempt."

Charitably, I did not contest this out-loud, though I privately thought that test-tubes were quite different from cooking in any real sense. No doubt, however, Holmes read my thoughts on my face.

"At any rate, Watson," he said, somewhat sharply. He never liked the implication that any of the knowledge that he had was useless. "You have not yet explained how _you_ have any experience with the "art" of cooking, nor the exact terms of your bet."

"I bet him that I could cook a full Scottish breakfast that was better than the mess that they serve him at his pub," I answered, stirring the eggs. "He and Constable Adams are to be the judges. As to my experience, it is something I picked up from watching my mother." I might have been embarrassed to admit this to another man, since cooking was not considered an appropriate boyish pursuit, but Holmes was supremely indifferent to the mores of society. "She served one almost every morning, and I was curious to see how it was done."

Holmes said nothing at all for several minutes, and I could almost hear him mulling this information over in his mind and integrating it with the other knowledge he had obtained about my background in the past. At last, he said, "I have visited that dank cave that Lestrade frequents. I believe I would be in a position to provide an unbiased judgment as to the winner of the bet, if you desire a second opinion."

I hide a smile and put another egg in the dish to cook. "Of course," I said generously. "There is sure to be enough for three."

* * *

 **A/N: I do love snarky Watson, because we don't get nearly enough of his "pawky sense of humor." From what I found on Google, a full Scottish breakfast involves back bacon, buttered toast, an egg, black pudding, sausage, and baked beans. What do you think would be the stakes for Watson and Lestrade's bet?**


	18. Chapter 18 - Boats

18\. From Winter Winks 221: Two boats float down a river. One of them contains photography equipment- the second the body of a visiting royal.

* * *

"I need not tell you, Mr. Holmes, that if the killer is not found, England's relationship with Bohemia will be irrevocably ruined."

There was indeed little resemblance now between the body being lifted carefully out of the little boat and the commanding masked man who had asked for Holmes' assistance in the Irene Adler affair. Someone had gouged open his face with some kind of sharpened object, and a knife had been transfixed through his heart. His rings, studded with dozens of precious stones, had been left untouched.

"His fiancée has yet to be informed," the minister continued. "However, we predict that when she is, the outcry will be substantial. As such, there is a great deal of pressure to solve this quickly and quietly."

Holmes merely nodded, his eyes already assuming the far away expression of a man deep in thought. "And in the other boat?"

"Photography equipment," Lestrade piped in, doffing his hat deferentially to the Minister. "We've left it all just as we found it. We also found a photograph tucked into his pocket. Perhaps it's the woman who's responsible in some way for his murder."

He handed it over to Holmes, who glanced at it once before handing it to me. I recognized the woman at once; even after all this time, I could not easily forget the face of Irene Adler.

"Do you think…" I began hesitantly.

"No," Holmes said. "She would not be so careless if she were responsible. However, it is possible of course that this is no coincidence, but a serious attempt to frame her for a crime she has not committed." His expression, far from exhilarated by the thrill of the chase, was more serious than I had ever seen it. "Watson, the murderer must be caught. May I count on your assistance?"

"Of course, Holmes," I said, surprised that he would ask. "Always."

He favored me with a faint smile. "Then let us begin by examining the other boat."


	19. Chapter 19 - Please Forgive Me

19\. From SheWhoScrawls : "Please Forgive Me…"

 **A/N: I'm not entirely happy with this, but it's probably better to publish imperfection than to dance for the fiftieth time with writer's block…For another interpretation of the prompt, see "Forgive Me" on my homepage.**

* * *

For a moment, I could only stare at the scene, my mouth open wide. Three men lay groaning on the ground; two had clearly suffered pistol shots, and the third looked as though he had been clubbed over the head.

Adams whistled. "Someone got here first."

I spared him a withering glare before turning to the other constables. "Alright, all of you, spread out. If Mr. Holmes is still being held here, we'll find him. If not, we'll start looking for clues as to where they'd have taken him next."

"Inspector Lestrade?" asked a familiar voice.

We looked at each other "S-sir?" Higgins said, "Is that…

The door nearest us swung open. Watson stepped through, eyes moving to each of us in turn. He held a revolver in one hand, and leaning heavily against his shoulder…I sucked in a startled breath. One of Holmes' eyes was swollen shut, and the coat draped across his shoulders could not conceal the treatment he'd received. But he was alive.

"I'd like to get Holmes back to Baker Street as soon as possible," Watson said. His gaze was steely, so unlike his usual geniality. "Would you be so kind as to help us to the cab outside?"

Holmes was clearly in no state to answer questions at the moment, and the doctor's face did not invite them. I gestured for Adams to support Holmes' other side, and Stutely ran ahead to open the door of the waiting coach. Between the three of them, they helped Holmes inside and got him settled against the cushions.

"I didn't think the doctor could…" Higgins said as we watched the cab doors close and the cab rattle away. "I mean, I've talked with him and I just…"

"Take it from me, lad," Adams said, gesturing towards the criminals that Stutely had started rounding up (not that they'd moved far) "The doctor's more forgiving then I'd be."


	20. Chapter 20 - Santa Claus

20\. From Ennui Enigma: A snowy night, cookies, and Santa Claus show up in Holmes' dream.

* * *

I am not a fanciful man. Watson can attest that I rarely give heed to anything outside the realm of logic, and the whimsical stories and romances that so ensnare his thoughts hold no attraction for a student of deduction. So it was with great surprise that I looked up from my chemicals late on Christmas Eve to find Santa Claus standing by our fireplace.

My eyes darted at once to the chemicals I worked with, but I could detect no gas that might explain the hallucination. Keeping one eye on the figure, I strode quickly to the window and threw it open to be sure. Cool air, laced with snow, swirled through at once.

The figure simply smiled "I am not a hallucination, Sherlock," he said in a deep, jovial voice. "Would you like a cookie?" Extending one gloved hand towards me, he held out a plate of gingerbread.

"I do not like gingerbread," I said. Even then it seemed a feeble response.

Santa Claus laughed. "You can't fool me, my boy," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I know you very well after all this time."

"Holmes?"

I awoke with a start to find myself in my favorite armchair, Watson standing next to me. I glanced at him — _spent Christmas Eve dinner with Ms. Morstan, took a cab on the way home, spent two and a half hours at his club this afternoon_ — then looked quickly towards the fireplace. No one was there.

"Are you alright, Holmes?"

I heaved a deep sigh and settled more deeply into the chair. "Of course, Watson. I simply had the strangest dream…"


	21. Chapter 21 - Nocturne

From SheWhoScrawls: Nocturne

* * *

"That is beautiful, Holmes," I said. "What is it?"

"Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2," he said, lowering his instrument. "However, it is Sarasate you must thank; without his arrangement, poor violinists like myself would find it all but inaccessible."

"I have always loved the idea of a nocturne," I said, settling deep into my armchair. "The thought that music could evoke the qualities of night, or that the darkness of the night might inspire such beauty… Though one must wonder whether the city where the nocturne was composed would have any effect upon the listener."

Holmes cocked his eyebrow at me; the idea seemed to have struck him as well. After a moment, he raised the bow once more, paused as though in reverie, then began to play. Such was the talent of my friend that I fancied I could hear cab wheels rumbling through narrow streets, the sounds of people walking home before their footsteps were swallowed by the fog. With a start, I realized that he was playing London, a song evoking the world outside our window.

Then, all at once, he drew the bow sharply across the strings, producing an almighty screech. Outside, dogs began to howl.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "What in Heaven's name was that?"

His mouth quirked in a grin. "That, my dear fellow," he said, putting the violin away, "is the sound you make when I wake you early for a case."


	22. Chapter 22 - Christmas Goose

22\. From SheWhoScrawls: Christmas goose

* * *

Readers of _The Strand_ might assume that Holmes and I lived in one mad whirl of excitement after his return to London, and it was true that we had many strange visitors to our apartments in those years. And yet there were still many evenings where we each sat quietly, each absorbed in our own separate pursuits.

It was Christmas Eve, and I sat at my desk writing up the details of the notorious canary-trainer, Wilson, of whom the world is not prepared to hear. For his part, Holmes had embarked on the rather Herculean task of organizing some of his papers; with so many cases in recent weeks, the clutter had become immense. We had no obligations until dinner time, when we expected a rather exceptional goose.

"Good heavens! Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!"

Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was all but imperturbable, but there was no mistaking the alarm in her voice. At once, we rose and hurried downstairs. She met us at the kitchen door, her eyes wide.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked, taking in her flustered appearance.

"I've just had a bit of a shock," she said, holding up her hand. "Look what I found in the goose's crop!"

Holmes and I looked. "A diamond!" I exclaimed. "Why, it's the Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle all over again."

Holmes' eyes gleamed. "More to the point, what are the odds that _two_ such birds would find their way to Baker Street?" He grabbed his coat and hat from where they hung by the door. Even I, well used to his moods by now, could not help but feel a little of his excitement. "Come, Watson, we have much to do!"

As we barreled out the door, I thought I heard Mrs. Hudson sigh.


	23. Chapter 23 - Lost Ring

23\. From Hades Lord of the Dead: Watson loses his wedding ring.

* * *

My profession is a dangerous one, and even were I unused to observation, I would be forced to develop a heightened awareness of my surroundings or risk ending my career prematurely. And so it was that I woke in the very early morning to the sounds of someone moving through the living room outside my door.

At once, I was alert. I lived alone; in one of his few selfish moments, Watson had abandoned me in favor of a wife. There was no reason for Mrs. Hudson to be cleaning this early in the morning. Moving carefully, I threw back the covers and pressed my ear silently against my bedroom door.

At once, I was reassured. The exaggerated scuffling outside my bedroom door _was_ Watson's after all. Come to see me on an urgent matter, newly arrived, yet still struggling with his sense of manners and unwilling to barge into my bedroom while I yet slept. And so he had recourse to this stratagem instead, knowing me as he did. I hid a smile. On occasion, Watson is far more subtle than he pretends to be.

I took only the time to wrap my dressing gown around me before opening the door.

"Ah, good morning, Watson," I said. "How is Mrs. Watson?"

Surprisingly, the mention of his wife did not produce a foolish smile the way it usually did. "Holmes," he said, wringing his hands. "I need your help."

"I deduced as much," I said archly, "seeing as you went to so much trouble to see that I awoke."

I had expected some embarrassed stammering, but he did not deny it, and for the first time, I felt a sense of foreboding. I set aside the joking manner I had assumed and drew him to an armchair. "If there is anything I might do to help, my dear fellow, of course I am at your disposal."

"It is a trifle embarrassing," he said, still looking at the floor.

I bit back my impatience with an effort, but he seemed unwilling to continue. I decided to help him along.

"Does it have anything to do with your missing wedding ring?"

His head snapped up to mine. "Holmes…"

I gestured impatiently. "Surely, Watson, you cannot expect me to miss so obvious a detail."

His expression turned wry. "I suppose not." He took a breath. "The last I saw of it was in my surgery. I took it off when examining a patient who I thought infectious. I left it in my desk drawer, and when I went to put it back on at the end of the day, it had disappeared…I…I do not want to go home and tell Mary that I have lost it."

"Surely she will understand," I said, but relented at his look. "Did you go most carefully through the desk? How sure are you that you left it there?"

"Yes, and extremely sure," he said, somewhat indignantly. "It was not there."

"And you wish me to come recover it."

His eyes lit up. "Oh, would you, Holmes? I know it's not the sort of thing usually worth your notice, but it would mean a great deal to me."

I rose. "Think nothing of it. Let me dress properly, and I will join you in a moment."

As it turned out, the incident was rather more in my line than either of us expected. One of the footmen had criminal predilections and had noted the place where Watson had stored the ring. Knowing my friend was of a trusting nature, and desperate for the money that could come from selling the ring, small as it was, he had taken the doctor's absence as an opportunity to relieve him of it. What followed was a confrontation and a foot chase along the path when the footman attempted to escape. Watson, as it turns out, can run much faster than I when properly motivated.

Afterwards, when the constables were escorting the footman away (he now sprouted a black eye and a broken nose), Watson thanked me sincerely for my help. The golden band now sparkled on his hand once more.

"It was my pleasure," I said, sincerely. Who knew that the search for a missing wedding ring could lead to such an invigorating afternoon?


	24. Chapter 24 - Falling Out

24\. From Hades Lord of the Dead: Sherlock and Mycroft fall out.

 **A/N: Don't worry. I am determined to finish this challenge, even if the responses are short.**

* * *

"You are being unreasonable, Sherlock."

I saw his jaw tighten, and I felt a faint stirring of alarm. Sherlock, for all his foibles, was not a man given to emotional outbursts. And yet, perhaps I should not be surprised — Dr. Watson had always been the exception to my brother's rules.

"On the contrary," he ground out. "It is unreasonable to expect a man of his age and physical infirmities to serve on the front lines."

"A limp is not enough to disqualify a man for military service, as you know well enough. As to his age, are you suggesting that Dr. Watson has lost control of his mental faculties?" Kindly, I thought, I did not add that Watson's faculties had never been particularly impressive to begin with. Sherlock was clearly distraught and was unlikely to be objective in the moment. "I really do not understand why you see fit to bother _me_ with such a matter. Dr. Watson has made his own decision; surely it is with him that you should be raising your objections."

Sherlock began pacing again. "I know what he will say. He will say it is his duty, or some other stupid, patriotic twaddle. I have seen the dispatches myself, brother mine; this war will be unlike any other, and I will _not_ have Watson risking his life in it. He has already done his part for England."

"I do not recall such protests when I asked _you_ to use your talents for the sake of His Majesty."

"I was bored in Sussex. Besides, in that case, the danger was minimal." With a wave of his hand, he shrugged off this patent falsehood. "You cannot claim the same will be true of Watson."

"I'm afraid there is nothing more to discuss. I tell you bluntly, Sherlock, that were he twice as crippled and ten years older, we could still make use of his experience. This war, as you said, is unlike anything else that we have faced. You and Dr. Watson will both have your work to accomplish."

"I will not do it. Not unless Watson is kept safe at home."

My patience with my younger brother, already stretched by his unreasonable emotionalism, snapped. "Oh, do stop whining like a petulant child. It is most unbecoming. I believe you wrong your companion by impugning his choice, and now you must decide whether your childish rebellion is worth costing Dr. Watson what safety he and our other soldiers may find as a result of your efforts."

His face had gone very pale and still. "Then we have nothing more to say to each other." Rising to his feet, he was gone before I could respond.

* * *

I assumed — perhaps foolishly — that this was simply a passing argument; I should have realized how little rationality Sherlock harbored concerning his, dare I say it, _friend_. As it was, I heard nothing at all from him until perhaps a week after the first wave of soldiers, Watson among them, departed for the front. Much to my chagrin, I found that there were several tasks that would have benefited from my brother's skills, and yet when I dispatched subordinates to his lodgings, he was nowhere to be found. Therefore, I was somewhat relieved when my aide finally announced his presence at my office in Whitehall.

"I am here to resume my work, Mycroft," he said stiffly. "I can depart London at once, if necessary, or I can renew my lodgings."

I quickly outlined his first assignment, a mission gathering intelligence that would require a few weeks and was imperative to safely plan our operations on the mainland. He took it all without comment, asked what questions were necessary, and departed.

I should have been most relieved to see that Sherlock had finally accepted his duty and was willing to once more work in aid of His Majesty's government. Strangely, I was not.

* * *

 **A/N: And so WWI begins...**


	25. Chapter 25 - A Festive Meal

25\. From mrspencil: a festive meal

 **A/N: This story follows right on the heels of Ch. 15, where Watson's uncle comes to town.**

* * *

"Do not trouble yourself, Watson," Holmes assured me briskly as we ascended the steps to the restaurant. "I would not have agreed to come if I were not willing to tolerate a night of social interaction."

As was so often his habit, he had divined at once the first source of my anxiety. Despite what my readers may believe, it was not his behavior that concerned me; Holmes had impeccable manners when he so chose. Yet I had been lamenting that my desire for reassurance had led me to involve my friend in something he would consider an ordeal.

"And as for your own conduct," he said, deftly addressing the second source, "there is even less cause for concern. Surely a man who has faced a hail of Jezzail bullets may withstand a simple festive meal?"

I was not so sure, but I could not help but be touched by his efforts to reassure me. I smiled at him warmly. "Thank you, Holmes."

"Think nothing of it," Holmes said dismissively, and all but propelled me inside.

I saw my uncle at once; physically, he had changed little since the last time we had met. His hair was a little more gray, of course, and there were more lines on his face, but the stern set of his mouth and the imposing physique were exactly as I remembered them.

He stood as the waiter brought us to his table, and we all shook hands.

"Sherlock Holmes," my uncle said as my friend was introduced and we sat down. "Your name, sir, is familiar. Are you also in the medical profession?"

Holmes smiled. "No, unless it is of the little social ills that plague our country. I am a consulting detective. When the police, as they so often do, run into difficulty, they come to me, and when they have laid all the evidence before them, I am generally able to set them straight."

"You seem very certain of your abilities, sir," my uncle said.

"Confidence is necessary to my trade," Holmes replied serenely. "No doubt you also find it useful when managing your shipping concerns."

My uncle nodded and smiled in return. "Indeed I do." He did not ask how Holmes knew of his work; no doubt he assumed that I had told Holmes in advance. Somewhat to my relief, Holmes did not correct this impression.

To my surprise, dinner passed with relative pleasantness. Holmes was most complimentary about my role in his adventures — indeed, far more complimentary than he often was at the time. Moreover, with Holmes to share the burden of conversation, I was not subject to the uncomfortable weight of my uncle's full attention. He did not speak of the tension that had grown heavy between us when I had decided to join the army; perhaps he had chosen this time of good cheer and reconciliation in order to effect our own.

At length, we had made our farewells and were once again on-route to Baker Street. Holmes, perhaps fatigued by the efforts he had made, sat quietly gazing out the window of the cab.

"Thank you, Holmes," I said for the second time that night as we exited the cab.

Once again, he shrugged. "Think nothing of it."

* * *

 **A/N: I wanted to include Mr. Watson inadvertently insulting our Watson's writing by calling it good fiction, but I couldn't make it fit. Sigh.**


	26. Chapter 26 - Holmes' Favorite Carol

26\. From Ennui Enigma: What is Holmes' favourite Christmas Carol and why?

* * *

 **Watson, 1883**

When left to his own devices, it was Holmes' custom to play notes on his violin that complemented his mood. A cluster of light, airy notes meant he was alert and cheerful, a listless drag across the strings indicated the onset of a black mood. When he was thinking on a case, I could often tell how well or how poorly it was going by the sounds that trailed from his instrument. I might have been tempted to rebel at these frequent solos, except he inevitably finished them with a whole series of my favorite airs by way of compensation. And, despite his personal feelings of the holiday, he had easily determined my favorite carols and played them during Christmastime.

"Thank you, Holmes," I said as the last notes of "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen," faded away. "That has always been my favorite."

From the look on Holmes' face, he thought this was a spectacularly obvious statement, but with unusual tact, he did not say so.

Then a thought struck me. "Do you have a favorite carol?" I could not remember him ever initiating a carol that was not a favorite of mine, and as his musical interest extended only to the violin, I had never heard him whistle or hum one absentmindedly.

Holmes shrugged. "There are some that are more interesting to play, of course, but I have never listened to one for my own enjoyment."

For some reason, the thought struck me as unbearably sad.

* * *

 **Holmes**

I knew at once from Watson's expression that my answer had disappointed him. I was not surprised by this, of course — I learned in our first Christmas together how much the season meant to him — but I was struck by the realization of how much I had changed in the two years of our partnership. Evidently, at some point along the road, I had begun to care what he thought of me, beyond what was necessary to keep him paying half of the rent.

"Perhaps it is time to give the matter some more thought," I added hastily. "After all, 'peace on earth and goodwill to men' is a worthy sentiment."

Watson's lips quirked. "You really think so, Holmes? I should think you would be bored."

I stood there staring as he went back to his medical journal, quite taken aback. Apparently, Watson knew me better than I thought. And had an alarmingly pawky sense of humor.

* * *

 **Watson, 1919**

"Watson!" Holmes cried warmly. "I hardly thought to see you before the New Year!"

He welcomed me inside at once, and I stepped gratefully into the little cottage at Sussex Downs. The fire was crackling cheerfully, and it was a welcome change from the cold and dismal front lines where I had spent four years. Even a full year after my return home, places like this, warm and cheerful, still seemed unreal, a time before the world had been so profoundly marred.

"I wish you had told me you were coming. I would have come to meet you at the station."

I could not help but smile. "I did not take the train, Holmes. I drove my new automobile."

He made a face, but nobly refrained from comment. Instead he led me into the sitting room and took my coat and hat. "I am very sorry that I have no food prepared. I will call up Mrs. Smythe at once and let her know of your arrival." I knew that Mrs. Smythe, though not as brave and patient as the inestimable Mrs. Hudson, was Holmes' current housekeeper. He bustled off into the next room, and I heard him speaking over the telephone. A few moments later, he returned. "Supper will be in about an hour. If you wish to rest from your journey…"

I demurred; it had been far too long since I had last seen my friend. Without the need for prodding, I sat in my customary seat by the fire. Holmes sat down opposite, and for some time afterwards, we spoke idly of everything that had occurred in the last few months. Holmes inquired after Violet, and I was able to pass along my wife's best wishes.

"I am surprised that she allowed you to visit so close to Christmas," Holmes said with a smile, and I laughed.

"She is indeed among the best of women."

Dinner was excellent; we passed much of the time in comfortable silence, and Holmes uncorked a bottle of particularly excellent Bordeaux to celebrate the occasion. At last, as we pushed away our empty plates, Holmes spoke.

"You will be glad to know, Watson, that I have finally acquired a favorite Christmas carol."

"Indeed?" I asked, much surprised. I vaguely remembered that we had discussed this shortly after we had met, but I hardly had expected Holmes to retain a memory of the conversation, particularly in light of the many things that had happened since. "Which one, old fellow?"

In answer, Holmes stood and vanished into his bedroom. When he returned, he held his violin.

"I believe," he said in answer to my look of concern — his arthritis had become quite bad in recent years — "that my fingers can withstand a single song."

And as I settled back into my chair, he began to play. Stiffness or no, Holmes' fingers still retained some of their old magic. In the tender caress of the music, I was carried back to 1914 and the single bright spot among the chaos and death that had surrounded me.

 _Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright…_

"Are you alright, dear fellow?" Holmes asked gently as the notes finally faded away, and I realized that my cheeks were wet. "I did not intend…"

"It was beautiful, Holmes," I said softly but with feeling. "You must have practiced for days before my arrival."

Holmes shrugged that off even as he flexed his fingers. "No trouble at all, my dear fellow. I have actually found that my bees are calmer when I play the violin near to their hives; I am considering doing so more often."

I smiled at his attempt to deflect my gratitude; evidently that habit had not changed. "I must admit, however, that I would not have thought that "Silent Night" was your favorite carol. It seems too…simple to appeal to your tastes."

Holmes looked down as his violin. "It marked a day when you were safe," he said after a moment. "The only day of all that horrible war."

"Holmes…" I could not say more. So rarely was Holmes willing to admit to the softer emotions, or even speak of them. A warmth filled my stomach that had nothing to do with the crackling fire.

* * *

 **A/N: Look up the Christmas Truce of 1914. It's an incredibly beautiful story, and I couldn't resist adding in this reference. Funny how I fumed at how difficult this prompt was and then went and wrote something three times as long as normal…**


	27. Chapter 27 - A Storm

27\. From mrspencil: a storm

 **A/N: There's more of this story in my head, but I can't figure out how to make it work in this format. So I'll give you what I can.**

* * *

In the summer of 18—, the quiet of 221B Baker Street was broken by a horrible, animalistic howl. Ice settled in my stomach and a chill ran down my spine. Worst of all was that the howl belonged to my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes.

"Watson!" he snarled, flinging himself against the restraints, "release me at once!" The bruise on his cheek stood out starkly against his pale skin. Despite my attempts to convince myself that it had been necessary, my stomach churned with guilt.

"You are not yourself, dear fellow," I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady. "Until the effects of the compound wear off, I'm afraid you're a danger to yourself and others."

"What do you know about me?" he demanded, wrenching harder in a violent attempt to free his wrists from their separate bedposts. "You, who are so unobservant that you can hardly perceive your hands in front of your face?"

"Allow me to treat your injury."

The snarl became a sneer. "Afraid of your own handiwork, _Doctor_? I always knew you were weak."

"You are not yourself, Holmes," I repeated.

I will not repeat his answer, nor the words that followed, so little do I wish to dwell on the vitriol that he heaped on me, nor on how he exploited my self-doubts with a ruthlessness that I had once or twice seen hinted at but which he had never turned on me. I could not leave him, for I feared he would somehow free himself from his bonds, or that the drug would have some side effect that would endanger his life. Nor could I administer a sedative with the unknown compound still raging through his veins. I could only do my best to close my ears to his poisonous words and avert my eyes from the blood which slowly stained the ropes around his wrists. At last, unable to bear a moment more, I nerved myself to gag him, an effort that nearly cost me my fingers but gave me a kind of tenuous peace. But even when I sat gingerly — favoring my damaged ribs — and tried to read, I could feel his burning glare.

* * *

In all, it took four and a half hours for the compound to work its way from Holmes' system. His struggles slowly died, and the muffled curses from behind the gag faded as well. To my shame, I found myself unwilling to go to him. I could not bear the thought that this was only a temporary surcease, that if I were to remove the gag, he would continue to hurl invective at me. Finally, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Holmes' body sagged upon the bed. At this, my instincts as his friend and doctor could not be ignored, and I went to remove the gag. Holmes made no attempt to struggle or bite, though I watched him warily.

"Look at me, Holmes."

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet mine. There was exhaustion and what I supposed was shame, but I saw no trace of the madness that had haunted me for the last few hours. Nor was there any sign of lingering ill effect; I judged his life was no longer in danger.

"Do you remember what happened?"

He fidgeted, dropping his eyes again.

"…Yes." He swallowed. "The compound was more potent than I expected. Indeed, the strength of it would entirely explain the violence of the…"

I had thought I was too tired for anger, but at his words, I felt a surge of fury.

"The murders, yes, Holmes, this compound would entirely explain them!" I heard my voice rising but was unable to stop it. His words echoed too much of his excuses for his drug addiction, and the words he'd used after taking the Devil's Root. I felt wrung out, worn to exhaustion by the emotional storm, and the thought that Holmes might shrug this off as he had so often was more than I could bear. "And yet again, in an attempt to unravel a mystery, you have put yourself in danger."

Holmes' eyes widened. I rarely lost my temper, and even more rarely shouted at him. No doubt my outburst was quite alarming. I could not bring myself to care. "You pay no attention to your health while on a case, and you pay no heed to my wishes concerning it."

"I…I am sincerely sorry, Watson. I was careless—"

I shook my head. The anger had drained away, leaving hollowness in its place. "There will come a time, Holmes," I said tiredly, "when an apology is not enough."

Leaning forward, I cut his bonds and left the room without another word.


	28. Chapter 28 - Irene Adler's Letter

28\. From mrspencil: Irene Adler writes a letter

* * *

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I know that a letter from me is unlikely to be received with pleasure, given the conclusion of our last encounter. However, there has been a rather unusual murder at the Palais Garnier here in Paris which I believe would intrigue you and allow you to exercise your highly trained talents. The victim, a stagehand named Joseph Buquet, was found hanging in the third cellar between a flat and a set piece from _Le roi de Lahore._ The police, predictably, believe it to be suicide. However, there were a series of unusual events in the theatre in the weeks prior to Buquet's death, and Buquet himself was heard to describe a mysterious and malformed figure that he witnessed in the cellar very near to where his body was discovered. If, as I suspect, there is some truth behind his assertions, the murderer may yet be found within these walls.

Should you be willing to accept the case, I shall arrange lodging for you at the Hotel Westminster on the Rue de la Paix. I hope to see you shortly, Mr. Holmes, and remain forever,

Very truly yours,

Irene Norton nee Adler


	29. Chapter 29 - The Missing Coal Scoop

29\. From Stutley Constable: The missing coal scoop.

* * *

Holmes and I knew the habits of our formidable landlady well after so many years sharing the apartments at 221B Baker Street. And so it was that we both recognized her footsteps on the stairs long before we heard the knock that announced her presence.

"Mr. Holmes?" Despite the politeness of her address, her blue eyes were steely. "I am looking for the coal scoop. Do you happen to know where it has gone?"

Holmes lifted his head from the chemistry table in some irritation; he had been engaged there for much of the afternoon and hated to be interrupted. "Surely it is near the coal, Mrs. Hudson. Such things are hardly within my purview."

I shot him a warning look. "I will keep my eye out for it, Mrs. Hudson," I offered. "Surely it will reappear."

Perhaps I was not doing as well as I had thought in keeping the look of guilt from off my face, for she gave me a suspicious look. "I will search again in an hour or so. I only hope that when it _reappears_ it is still fit for its intended use!"

I nodded earnestly; Holmes waved a hand negligently from where he sat. With one last piercing look, Mrs. Hudson left. As soon as the good lady had departed, I crossed to the small hole in the wall, half hidden by a bookcase, and crouched down beside it.

"Dawson?"

I tried to keep my voice low, but no doubt my words would be clearly audible to the other occupants of our flat.

"Basil?"

"Dash it all, there's no need to shout," an irritable voice replied. A moment later, a mouse appeared in the entrance to the hole. Like my friend whom he resembled, Basil was clad in a worn dressing gown and held a tiny violin in his paw. He stared up at me utterly without fear, just a piercing gaze that further reminded me of Holmes.

"I'm afraid Dawson is still trying to get the paint off, Doctor," he said. He clearly knew what I had been about to ask. "Though if I saw you before he did, he asked me to pass along his thanks and to tell you that the production of _Promousetheus Bound_ was a great success. They were able to rig a contraption to lower the coal scoop from the ceiling, and it made quite a serviceable chariot." *

"I'm glad to hear it…" I said.

"But as Mrs. Hudson desires it returned at once," Basil added shrewdly, "I will tell Dawson to hurry up about it. Perhaps next time a former patient asks him to help with their amateur drama productions, he will have the good sense to refuse."

"Perhaps you should participate instead, Basil," a new voice added. A moment later, Doctor David Q. Dawson toddled into view. His little paws were smeared with paint, as was the rather workmanlike smock he wore over his clothing. "I have said before that Mouse-dom lost a credible actor when you chose to become a detective."

Basil sniffed. "Stick to patient diagnoses, Dawson."

Dawson just smiled before looking up at me and raising his voice. "I'm so sorry for the delay, Doctor Watson. I'm afraid the set department went a trifle overboard."

"Perhaps if you brought it out here, we could all work on it?" I suggested. At the chemistry table, Holmes scoffed. As I'd known he would be, he was clearly eavesdropping on the conversation. As this suited my purpose, however, I did not complain. "After all," I added mildly, "Mrs. Hudson is unlikely provide any holiday cookies if she is still angry with us this evening."

Basil, who had opened his mouth scornfully to protest, shut it thoughtfully. With effort, I hid a smile. Each time that Mrs. Hudson provided cookies to myself and Holmes, I left out one or two. Though wary at first introduction, I had become quietly fond of the pair.

"I suppose it will pass some of the time until my next case," Basil said loftily after a moment's thought. "I shall change." Without another word, he disappeared into the hole.

Right on cue, Holmes added. "I will help as well, Watson. Cookies aside, I have no desire for Mrs. Hudson to raise the rent once more, or force us to replace the object."

He likewise disappeared into his room.

Once he was gone, Dawson and I shared a secret smile.

* * *

 **A/N: And let the crossovers continue...** *** _Prometheus Bound_ , attributed to Aeschylus, involves a chorus of sea nymphs descending from the sky in a winged chariot / ship.** **It's a very challenging play; the amateur drama society Dawson is helping out is clearly very ambitious!**


	30. Chapter 30 - Hourglass

30\. From BookRookie12: Hourglass

 **A/N: Much of the dialogue below is taken from "The Final Problem."**

* * *

In my school days, I had a professor whose practice it was to keep an hourglass on his desk. While his students were engaged in taking an exam, he would turn the hourglass on end and watch with great anticipation as the grains of sands cascaded through. On the very instant that the last grain landed, he would lunge upwards with a flurry of his robes and announce triumphantly, "Time's up!" Woe betide the student who had not yet completed his work; the professor would rip it from his hand and sneer at the unfortunate soul.

"Perhaps if you had something in your head," he would say, "your pen would move faster?"

He had a great store of maxims for such occasions. "Unfinished work is like a house without a roof" was another favorite, "Empty as your head."

I must say that I took great pleasure in hanging him from the school's unfinished bell tower.

And yet when I too became a professor, I found myself adopting the hourglass. It heightened the students' sense of focus, forcing them to rise to new heights or face expulsion from the program. Like my old professor, I had no patience for those whose minds were not razor keen, but unlike him, I had no need to cover up my own inadequacies with a string of pompous maxims. Many things may justly be laid at my doorstep, but I believe I can also take credit for honing three or four young, ambitious minds during my tenure.

And so it was that despite the inconveniences that he had caused me, I could not help but admire the keen young mind of Sherlock Holmes and wish that he had been able to turn it to a more fruitful purpose. Perhaps even now it was not too late.

"You stand fast?" I asked.

"Absolutely." The boy was brave, I could give him that, but I could see by the tenseness in his posture that he was still afraid. Smart boy, bright boy, hardly older than my students. Hearkening to my professorship once more, I set out to help him understand.

"'You crossed my path on the 4th of January," I said. "On the 23rd you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty. The situation is becoming an impossible one."

"Have you any suggestion to make?" From his tone, we might have been simply discussing some obscure mathematics, and once again, I felt a mingled pride and regret at his spirit.

"You must drop it, Mr. Holmes," I explained. "You really must, you know."

He sat back. "After Monday."

"'Tut, tut." There was, after all, such a thing as too much stubbornness. "I am quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair. It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure. You smile, sir, but I assure you that it really would." Even now, part of me was loathe to dispose of such a mind.

"'Danger is part of my trade."

For the first time, I dropped my professor-like air. I leaned forward instead, intent that he should understand the full extent of his plight. "That is not danger," I said. "It is inevitable destruction. You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable to realize. You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden under foot."

Stubbornness and realization warred in his face; his bright gaze wavered. It was a thing I had seen many a time, a student looking for another answer that did not exist.

Alas, but stubbornness won. "I am afraid," said he, rising, "that in the pleasure of this conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me elsewhere."

"Well, well," I said, shaking my head sadly as I rose as well. _Such a dreadful waste._ "It seems a pity, but I have done what I could. I know every move of your game. You can do nothing before Monday. It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes. You hope to place me in the dock. I tell you that I will never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me. If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you."

"You have paid me several compliments, _Mr._ Moriarty," Holmes said coolly. "Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the former eventuality I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept the latter."

There was no doubt in my mind that the slight in his words was deliberate. I could feel my blood begin to boil; clearly this boy's arrogance outweighed his intellect.

"I can promise you the one, but not the other," I growled and turned to go.

 _Time's up._


	31. Chapter 31 - A New Year Dawns

31\. From Book girl fan: The New Year starts with a bang.

 **A/N: It took a couple extra months, but I finally finished. Another shout-out to Hades Lord of the Dead for organizing this challenge and to all of you who reviewed along the way! We end here on a hopeful note...**

* * *

The fireworks went off with a deafening bang, and I could not help but flinch. The rest of the crowd oohed and aahed, but instead of filling me with wonder, the colors and the lights transported me back to a nightmare of earth and mud, worming my way through the clutching, red-soaked ooze as the ground beneath me shook.

"Steady on, old fellow," a familiar voice said in my ear, and an equally familiar shoulder braced me as I swayed. A hand on my elbow began steering me gently out of the crowd and away from the noise and lights.

"Outright foolishness," Holmes said irritably as we pushed our way through the crush of people, "fireworks at an event where many veterans will be present."

"The people need something to celebrate, Holmes," I protested feebly. I let Holmes lead me where he would, however, and in minutes we had escaped the main body of the crowd and entered a blessedly more quiet side street. "The New Year, the first after the war…"

"Yes," Holmes cut me off, but there was no heat in his voice, "It is mankind's nature to hope that the future will be better and less bloody than the past."

He cursed suddenly, a distinctly American oath, as we were forced to swerve out of the way of a motor car, and I could not help but smile. My friend's language may have been altered somewhat by his recent services to the Crown, but his dislike of so-called modern "advances" had not. His grip on my arm did not loosen, however, and he took care to guide us over the least uneven cobblestones.

"I am sorry, Holmes," I said suddenly. "I know how much you dislike returning to London; I am sure this is not what you anticipated from your visit."

My friend drew his eyes from the road ahead to give me an incredulous look. "After all this time," he scoffed, "surely you know me better than that. The entire purpose of this so-called _visit_ was to meet you when you returned to England and to spend time in your company. Why should I complain that you are giving me an excuse to do so without the presence of a crowd?"

Again, I marveled at how little I had known Holmes when I'd written "The Greek Interpreter". Brain he had, still sharp even now, but only a blind fool would say he also had no heart. For several minutes, we simply walked in silence, often passing groups of Londoners headed in the opposite direction. Looking at their faces, I could see a general air of hope. Hope that now the war was over, the New Year would dawn brighter and bring healing from the scars of war. That England would never again be plunged into such a devastating conflict.

"Do you think it will?" I could not help but ask.

My friend looked at me quizzically. "Will _what_ , Watson?"

Somewhere deep inside, I found a smile. "You mean you can no longer simply divine my thoughts at a glance?" How familiar this was, how it hearkened back to a time before the war, a better, simpler time. "Perhaps it is time you should be fitted for spectacles."

He shot me an irritable look. "I can still see far better than you can, Watson, or at the very least _observe._ As for your question," he added, softening his haughty air. He sounded sad. "Despite my long experience with humanity and the depths to which it can sink, I did not truly think the world would ever be torn apart by even one such war."

I closed my eyes briefly, relying on my friend to guide my feet. Holmes had spoken aloud my feelings exactly. Perhaps it should have been comforting to know that even Holmes, student of human behavior, had not predicted this, but it was not. The horrors of war were too strong in my mind.

"However," Holmes continued, in a tone so gentle and persuasive that I could not help but look at him in some surprise. "I have learned the power of hope in the past few years. It is surprisingly resilient, even in the face of horrors."

I shook my head as he echoed the very word I had been thinking of, though not in disagreement. Clearly I had spoken prematurely when I'd claimed he could no longer read my thoughts. What's more, I could not help but feel comforted at his words. Hope of a kind, perhaps, hope in hope itself? I made no answer, but from his smile as we resumed our walk, Holmes did not need me to express my thanks aloud. For the first time, I began to properly examine my surroundings, and realized that in reality, we were not very far from where we had started. Holmes had kept our pace to something that would not strain even my aging limbs. Or perhaps here was simply more proof that he knew me better than I knew myself.

"Holmes," I said, drawing his gaze immediately. There was no surprise in his grey eyes.

"I believe I would like to return to see the last of the fireworks. To celebrate the New Year properly."

"I took the liberty of bringing a bottle of excellent brandy in my luggage," Holmes said, unruffled. "It is in my lodgings. We would need to return the way we came at any rate if we wish to enjoy it." He turned us at once, and we began slowly back the way we came.

"For my part, Watson," Holmes added hesitantly after awhile, clearing his throat. "I am very grateful you have returned safely. You are always welcome at my cottage in Sussex Downs, you know, my dear fellow. Mycroft tells me it is unscathed."

This time, I smiled in earnest. "Thank you, Holmes," I said sincerely. "You do not know how much that means to me." Knowing how uncomfortable he found it to speak of emotion, I added in a teasing tone. "Are you sure you can direct us back to the square? London has changed somewhat in your absence."

My friend just scoffed and led us unerringly back to the light.


End file.
